A person I know via Facebook lost his wife this week. She had fought a long fight against cancer, but ultimately her body gave out. She was at home on hospice when she passed.
He commented once on the painful duality of her being there but knowing she would soon not be there, and that got me thinking of liminal space, that border world between the here and the hereafter.
I have been privileged to be in that liminal space twice in my life. As difficult as that space is, it is a gift. That time, that feeling, is unlike anything else I have experienced.
I am not religious, but that time, that collision of the here and the hereafter, feels sacred. The world outside disappears. You suddenly know what really matters. For that time, your job doesn’t matter, politics doesn’t matter, none of the things that weigh so heavily on your daily life matter. Time stops. The world contracts to that room.
In that room, that sacred liminal space, the here and the hereafter overlap, like a double exposure photograph. Your loved one is both here and there. Your heart is both here and there.
The final transition, when it comes, is palpable. You feel their soul come free. And suddenly, they are at peace. Their pain, their struggle, is done.
And you are both grateful and heartbroken.
For the liminal space has collapsed, and you are left bereft in the here.
But love never dies, and in time you will find that love creating liminal spaces when you least expect them. Don’t let grief blind you to those connections.
The veil between the here and the hereafter is thinner than we believe.
Liminal Space—CoronaLife Day 866
A person I know via Facebook lost his wife this week. She had fought a long fight against cancer, but ultimately her body gave out. She was at home on hospice when she passed.
He commented once on the painful duality of her being there but knowing she would soon not be there, and that got me thinking of liminal space, that border world between the here and the hereafter.
I have been privileged to be in that liminal space twice in my life. As difficult as that space is, it is a gift. That time, that feeling, is unlike anything else I have experienced.
I am not religious, but that time, that collision of the here and the hereafter, feels sacred. The world outside disappears. You suddenly know what really matters. For that time, your job doesn’t matter, politics doesn’t matter, none of the things that weigh so heavily on your daily life matter. Time stops. The world contracts to that room.
In that room, that sacred liminal space, the here and the hereafter overlap, like a double exposure photograph. Your loved one is both here and there. Your heart is both here and there.
The final transition, when it comes, is palpable. You feel their soul come free. And suddenly, they are at peace. Their pain, their struggle, is done.
And you are both grateful and heartbroken.
For the liminal space has collapsed, and you are left bereft in the here.
But love never dies, and in time you will find that love creating liminal spaces when you least expect them. Don’t let grief blind you to those connections.
The veil between the here and the hereafter is thinner than we believe.
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